


Forces and orbits and attraction

by Etalice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Physics, Pining, The four forces of nature, Well technically three out of four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 11:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice
Summary: If your heart were a compass, he’d be magnetic north.Sherlock pines after John for 650 words.





	

_There’s a head in the fridge. Sherlock. There’s a bloody head in the fridge._

His voice sounds like the sun (luminous and warm and painfully gorgeous) and you feel your heart escaping your chest (be still, be still), beating like a war drum, blood crashing against your ribs like waves.

You don’t need to turn around to feel his presence behind you like the pull of gravity. The physicality of the sensation is overwhelming, it starts in the pit of your stomach and the hollow of your throat, it spreads like treacle to until you can feel it in the bones of your jaw. You turn around anyway.

If your heart were a compass, he’d be magnetic north.

He’s standing there (don’t stare, god, don’t stare), tired eyes honey dark and velvet soft, and you’re almost sure he’s talking to you but you’re staring and staring and deciding that he is the sky or the horizon (something incredible, and important, and always just out of reach).

_Just, look, just tell me if we have clean mugs, okay?_

The words tumble out of his mouth like silver, like gold, like something precious you could pick up and cradle to your chest. You keep noticing the curves and the angles of his perfect face and not answering his questions at all. You find that you can’t remember where the mugs are (but you know each gorgeous inch of his face and the softness of the skin on his wrists). You say something (something that somehow is not _god_ and _can I kiss you_ and _you’re gorgeous_ even though it’s all you can think) and he smiles again. You want to listen, you do, but the lines at the corner of his eyes draw you in and you wonder how they’d taste if you leaned in and kissed them. He turns around. You envy the paper in his hand, held lightly by precise fingers and carried away by strong arms. At some point the conversation, your heart crept up and into your throat and you have no idea how you got in so deep.

If your heart were the moon, he’d be the earth (pulling it into orbit and making it go round and round and round).                                       

It’s almost physically painful, this stupid blinding love. It feels like a hook in your chest, like a pull in your stomach, like weeds growing their roots behind your bellybutton, like you need something to happen. It makes you want to shed your skin; it makes you want to turn inside out. Nothing ever happens. You’re just colleagues, you are, and he’s so bloody gorgeous, and he’s so absolutely perfect, and that’s all there is to it.

You make yourself tea. You try to forget the solid shape of his shoulders and the way his hair catches the light and the scent of his skin. Your tea’s cold and you haven’t even started to forget. 

One day, you’ll close the distance between your bodies. One day, you’ll run soft hands down the knots of his biceps and triceps, let warm palms trace the brachialis and the brachioradialis, and deft fingers learn the path of the extensors and the flexors and the abductors that snake down from the elbow to the wrist. One day, you’ll take his hands in yours and pull his body flush against yours (his heart pressed against yours, ventricles and atria beating together, an exquisite symphony of tribal drums) and the words will tumble from your lips ( _you’re gorgeous_ and _I love you_ and _God_ ). One day you’ll kiss, the apex of your tongue learning the shape of his teeth and the texture of his lips and the weeds in your stomach will finally bloom in the warm light of the feeling.

One day he’ll be the force holding the nucleus of your heart together and that fact alone makes it all okay.


End file.
